Irina’s finger began another circle on the table. ‘Is this why you came here?’
‘No. I came to say that I was profoundly sorry. I didn’t expect to ask you anything about Róża because I didn’t expect to trust you, but I do, entirely’
Watching the circle grow smaller, Irina said, ‘There was more than one infirmary in Mokotów. They were at different ends of the building. The first was for the sick, the second was for mothers.’ She nodded at her hand, assuming Anselm was unbelieving. ‘That’s right, in those days, during the Terror, some women gave birth in prison. They didn’t let you go just because you turned out to be pregnant. They kept you for as long as they wanted. I don’t know if Róża had a child or not. When I worked at the ministry I knew there were registers in the archive that had been brought over from Mokotów in the sixties, but I wasn’t allowed to see them … I was just one of the administrative staff and I didn’t have the clearance. ‘She laughed to herself, sadly ‘In a way, I didn’t care if Róża was one of those secret mothers or not. For me, it was just something important that I would never reveal to Mr Frenzel; and when I looked at Róża’s prison photographs, wondering why we were so different, I just thanked God that while I’d lost everything that Róża had preserved, I’d at least kept my child. The comparison was a kind of comfort … it made sense of my situation in life.’
A certain transparency comes with shared confidence. One can sense things that haven’t yet been said. And when Anselm rose to leave, he vaguely knew the answer to his own question. It had grown at the back of his mind during the soft lulls in conversation, when he’d pitied Irina Orlosky.
‘Who owns this building?’
‘Mr Frenzel.’
Always that ‘Mr’; that appellation contrôlée of respect.
‘He’s my landlord.” she continued, leading Anselm into the corridor. ‘The whole block has been sold to developers. Everything’s going to change for the better … They’re going to build a football stadium for the opening match of the European Cup.’ there’ll be a metro station for the fans, and an Olympic swimming complex … There’ll be lots of other changes and all for the better. Mr Frenzel calls it his favourite investment because he bought the place with his SB pension.’
She drew back the door chain but Anselm involuntarily paused, looking to his left. The son for whom so much had been sacrificed lay fast asleep or sedated on the floor, one arm around the cushion, his Kalashnikov by a plate of uneaten pizza crusts. He’d lost the battle. He was one of the nameless fallen, known only as Irina’s child. Her voice roused him.
‘Mr Frenzel didn’t take my identity,’ she said, evenly ‘I lost it on the day I entered the ministry building. I can’t get it back … I tried, and it didn’t work out. But if Colonel Brack stands trial … if I really have helped to bring about justice for Róża Mojeska then.’ who knows, maybe I’ll have the right to walk on the same side of the street. That would be nice.’
Chapter Thirty-Three
Disgust and melancholy tailed Anselm through the dark, empty streets of Praga. History — always alive in this city — asserted itself once more. It was precisely because the Soviet Army had been camped here during the Uprising across the river that the buildings in Praga had remained standing. This was all that was left of the old Warsaw that Róża would have known. And it was here that Marek Frenzel, the cute investor in people’s mistakes, had made his fortune, bleeding profit from Stalin’s shameful failure to stop the slaughter. The irony was toxic. Hands in his habit pockets, Anselm dwelled upon another history of destruction, that of Róża, and the murmur of her uprising.
Irina may have been undecided, but Anselm was certain: Róża had given birth to a child in Mokotów He hadn’t considered the possibility because he hadn’t known what the blue paper might represent. But now he knew. And, thinking now of her statement, he understood at last why children lived and breathed on every page.
‘Even so, I should have seen it from the pavement,’ he said, out loud. ‘The writing was on the prison wall.’
He recalled the young woman in the Rolling Stones T-shirt. Her emotions had imploded, disappearing comprehensively with shocking speed. At the time he’d simply perceived the incongruity at the heart of Róża’s statement: there was no hint of visceral feeling on the page despite the traumatic events she recounted. Intellectual commitment to the Shoemaker, yes; but no fire in the belly; no stabbing passion.
‘I knew then that your emotional life had remained in Mokotów. And now I understand why you wanted to stay there. It was the place you last saw your child.’
There was another certainty — Anselm looked up to take his bearings, retracing his steps towards the river.’ noting the streets were less dirty the buildings smarter; that the tide of investors was on the way, bringing all sorts of changes for the good, Frenzel riding the wave like a sea slug on wreckage — Róża arrived at the Kolbas alone.
‘You let go,’ he declared, opening his hands with dismay ‘Why? Because you looked into the eyes of someone who, one day, would have to be told about their father; someone who could be spared unnecessary pain. This is what it all comes down to, isn’t it? It’s always about avoiding suffering. Your child’s, Kaminsky’s.’ the Church’s.’ anyone’s, but never yours. You just accept it, for them.’
Róża had accepted adoption. She’d let her child out of prison. She’d let another family take her place: a better, simpler, happier family where people laughed and cried for all the usual reasons, where no one spoke of torture, martyrdom and the magnitude of the Shoemaker. But Róża had still made a big mistake, because shielding other people from suffering isn’t always possible. It’s not always a good idea. Which is why her decision to see Brack in court had become her last obsession.
‘You realised what had always been obvious,’ said Anselm, compassionately, ‘easily missed because you were guided by love; you saw, at last, that you had a debt to your child greater than your loyalty to the Shoemaker and the Church, greater than the claims of any political cause or institution. You faced what you’d run away from; the obligation to bring your husband’s killer to justice, in the name of your child, even if that child never knew it.’
He passed a brooding, abandoned factory, its windows sealed with breeze blocks; he nipped through an arch adjacent to a substantial residence that had been halved, the outline of floors and rooms like scars on the wall, its doorways bricked up. Rotten fruit lay on the pavement and strips of white plastic banding curled up in the gutter. A cheap market had been and gone. The warm smell of decay entered Anselm’s lungs. He increased his speed, trying to escape the sudden recrudescence of the Dentist.
A chess match came to mind.
Anselm had been toying with an unusual sacrifice: a queen for a pawn — something to shock and disturb his abstracted opponent.
‘I had this source,’ John had said, moving a bishop to QP4. ‘He listened at closed doors. Told me what he’d heard. Fed me good stories.’
He’d been a voice on the other end of a telephone, a man who’d called himself the Dentist. His stories turned out to be sweeteners, because the Dentist turned out to be a high-ranking officer in the Ministry of Internal Affairs, trying to lure John on side.
On side for what?
John had said he didn’t know, because he’d been kicked out of Warsaw.
Only, thanks to Irina, Anselm had learned a little bit more about this episode in John’s life. Before taking that plane to Heathrow, John had been locked in a prison cell, his jaw swollen from a good kicking. He’d called Brack, and Brack had come to say goodbye … and all this happening in the immediate aftermath of Róża’s capture.
‘Which isn’t surprising,’ replied Anselm to his clouded mind. ‘John was arrested at the same time as Róża. Brack’s creeping around as the Dentist had nothing to do with Polana. They were separate operations. Remember? Brack’s interest in teeth fell outside the joint SB/Stasi mandate. His dealings with John had nothing to do with his pl
an to catch Róża and the Shoemaker.’
Anselm came to a junction he didn’t recognise. He must have taken a wrong turn. Not caring he pressed on as if Frenzel’s pals were on to him, wanting blood because he’d bought those flowers for a piece of the boss’s property. Ahead was the bright, modern skyline west of the river; he’d easily find a bridge. Like one of the Magi from the east, he’d found an unexpected truth, and the only way home was by a different route, because truth changes where you’re going and how you get there.
‘The Dentist was Brack.’ Anselm wouldn’t let the matter go. It was as though he’d turned round to check where he’d got lost. ‘Now there’s a truth I didn’t expect.’
John’s hand had reached into the darkness of a sewer to touch Brack’s outstretched fingers. The touching had troubled John (he’d said), and it troubled Anselm now, because unexpected truths, lined up, often make greater sense of each other. And Anselm had stumbled across another one in Róża’s statement.
John had told her a family secret: his mother had died during his infancy Mr Fielding, an indecisive man, had remarried swiftly. He’d ended up exiled to a Washington basement, his career in the slow lane. Róża called it a personal story tied up with the greater struggle. It had been the reason for John’s coming to Warsaw … where, by chance (unknown to Róża) he’d shaken hands in the dark with Otto Brack.
‘What’s the link?’
What connection lay between the death of John’s mother and Brack’s emergence as the Dentist in the life of her son? There had to be one. Proximity of two mysteries in time and place was unlikely to be a coincidence — that was Anselm’s rule of thumb: it served him in theology and it had served him at the Bar (he’d never been at ease with chance as an explanation: it was harder to justify than a miracle). The connection, if there was one, remained obscure. But this much was clear: Brack had been manoeuvring John as much as he’d been manipulating Róża.
‘Why didn’t you tell me, John?’ asked Anselm. ‘Why not tell me about her death and the greater struggle? For God’s sake, we drank stolen altar wine together. We played Misery You came to Larkwood and learned how to pick fruit that was ripe.’
Darkness entered his mind like a cold, paralysing wind. All at once he came to a halt.
There ahead, on a small piazza, in the blue night shadow of trees and shrubs, were a group of musicians … five of them … all in various attitudes of performance: a violin, an accordion, a drum, a guitar and a banjo.
But there was no sound and no movement.
On approaching the band Anselm saw that they were statues … life-sized figures waiting for the dance to begin, for the people in all the sealed tenements to come out and stamp their feet and clap their hands. They were waiting for Róża, and Irina, and so many others …
The imported meaning bounced back, smashing straight through Anselm’s disquiet. This gathering of folk playing in unison was like a prophecy whose fulfilment no servant of Brack or Frenzel could hinder, even if they were to come running round the corner right now and beat Anselm senseless — as another band of thugs had once beaten Róża and so many other friends of the truth. Ultimately the executioners couldn’t win. The entertainment had been booked … for anyone who dared to come out of their blocked up lives.
Fired up with a quite foreign energy, Anselm strode away easily finding the bridge back to the west bank of Warsaw. He was being drawn forward, no longer leading an investigation but following the beat of a drum. He’d found the name of Róża’s informer. He knew why she’d been silent and why she’d now speak for her child. Everyone’s illusions would soon be shattered — Brack’s, Kaminsky’s and the Shoemaker’s, for sure; and maybe those of Anselm and John. It didn’t matter. They were all moving relentlessly towards a time of music.
Part Five
Klara’s Child
Chapter Thirty-Four
A thick-set man in jeans and a leather jacket quickly opened the rear doors of the light blue Nyska van. The engine chugged, pumping sickness into the cold evening air. As John was thrown into the back, a fist crashed into the side of his head. A siren screamed. The van lurched forward and the two big lads standing over John lost their balance.
At a police station they kicked him into a holding cell. As the man in jeans ripped the film out of the camera, John spat the blood from his mouth and said, ‘When you’ve finished dial 55876. Tell him Conrad needs a dentist.’
The door slammed shut. Footsteps sauntered back to the main desk. John rolled over on the bed, seeing Róża in the hands of those louts. He lived out the scene as if he were watching a film reel jammed on the same few seconds, the figures juddering back and forth. Two hours later a key turned in the lock and a man in a long camel overcoat sauntered into the cell. With affected delicacy he used one finger to close the door, leaving the guard in the corridor to turn the handle. John sat up, staring at the man in astonishment.
‘Well, well, well,’ said the Dentist, shaking his head. ‘You have been a silly boy’
This was the first time they’d met. Until now, their dealings had all been verbal, over a secure telephone line using a secure number. But this was a face he’d seen before … in the cemetery.
‘You shouldn’t have given them the number,’ said the Dentist, critically.
He’d opened the buttons on his overcoat and sat on a chair, hitching his trousers at the knee. He was very smart. The shoes were brand new, with that mirror-shine. The socks were pulled high.
‘They wouldn’t let me use the phone. They kicked me in the teeth instead.’
‘I didn’t think you’d go and take pictures.’
‘That’s what journalists do. I collect news.
‘Not when it can burn the hand that feeds you. My hand.’
‘I didn’t know you’d be there.’
‘Maybe we should talk more often.’
The Dentist shrugged inside his camel coat. He seemed uncomfortable. The material of his grey jacket was bothering his neck. The knot in the silk tie was fat, making a sort of maroon pedestal for his face. He was well shaved, his skin shining. Short, parted hair had a faint tinge of oxidised brown.
‘Well, did you get to meet the Shoemaker?’ His greenish eyes flashed a passing interest.
‘No. Thanks to you.
John swallowed the complaint. The Shoemaker had been there. He’d been within reach. If only the blockhead had stayed in his office, wherever that might be. If only he’d left John alone to get on with his job.
‘You’ve not been following me, have you?’ John’s leg began to bob up and down.
‘What did you say?’ The question had stung. It had struck at the heart of their relationship. ‘Who the hell do you think I am? Do you have any idea how much I’ve done for you?’
‘I’m sorry it’s just that I got a beating in the van, and I …’ John stroked his swollen jaw Confusion erupted at the thought of Róża walking calmly towards the Dentist. She knew him. How could Róża know the Dentist?
‘I want you to let her go:
‘Who?’
‘Róża Mojeska.’
The Dentist frowned. His top teeth stabbed at his lower lip. ‘You’re not serious:
‘I am. Let her out.’ John had influence and he was going to use it. ‘Otherwise the deal’s off.’
‘My goodness, you are serious.’
Unless John was completely mistaken, there was a hint of humour in his voice. The faint mockery riled him. ‘Do you think I’m joking?’
‘No, of course, not. It’s just that, well, I’ve got a job, too, you know You seem to think I can just pick and choose my fights.’ He stood up, shrugging his coat again, thrusting his hands deep into the wide pockets. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘No, that’s not enough. She has to walk free. It’s not my fault a wheel came off today And I want to see her …’
‘You’re going too far,’ said the Dentist. ‘You’re wading out of your depth. You’re heading into my waters. They’re dan
gerous.’
All at once the Dentist looked tired; even bored; and possibly … sad. He examined John from afar, nodding to himself His eyes moved around his clothes and features, just like John’s had moved over his. The mutual appraisal was like that awkward weighing up when someone new enters the family What you think doesn’t really matter; they’re here to stay You put the best foot forward and hope for the best. And, by the look of the leather, the Dentist had gone for Churches, the Oxford style. He’d put on his Sunday best.
‘I want her address.’ John stood up as if finding height over the Dentist might add some pressure. ‘Don’t you see? I have to tidy up what happened in the graveyard. I was there. You were there:
The Dentist made a face, as if to say he hadn’t thought of that. Part of his remote sadness predisposed him to being helpful. His teeth nipped his bottom lip. ‘Thirty-seven Miron Buildings, Niska Street. You say nothing of me, do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Nothing.’
‘Okay’
‘Don’t get tetchy’ The Dentist moved towards the door. ‘You’ve compromised me once already’
Turning around he studied John with a new intensity. ‘You shouldn’t have called, you know It complicates things.’
John nodded. He’d made a mistake. He made lots of mistakes.
‘We can’t meet again, do you understand? Our relationship is over.’ The Dentist looked aside, absorbed by his thoughts. ‘For now, the deal’s on hold.’
‘Okay’ replied John, uncertainly As far as he was concerned, nothing need change. There was still a lot of work to be done. They needed to talk more, that’s all.
‘See if you can get her out,’ said the Dentist, standing up.
The Day of the Lie Page 21
